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sidekick-hero · 4 months ago

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My heart's desire: you

(steddie | 1.7k | mature | written for @steddie-week day 3: holding me by Warlock | AO3)

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-Season/Series 04, Eddie Munson as Kas the Betrayer (Dungeons & Dragons), Monster Eddie Munson, Protective Eddie Munson, Pining, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eddie Munson Needs a Hug

Eddie never expected much from life, if he was honest.

Sure, once upon a time he had dreams. Big ones. Go to LA, become a rock star, leave this shithole of a town behind. Find his people, a place where he belonged. Not a freak, but someone worthy.

Deep down he didn't really believe they would come true - not for people like him - but it was nice to have them. They helped him fall asleep at night and even more to get up in the morning.

All those dreams bit the dust when he did. The dead don't dream, right?

Right.

It's just that he's not exactly dead. But he's not alive either. So what does that mean for his dreams?

He doesn't sleep anymore. Doesn't need to. Sometimes he manages to drift, his body completely still while his mind is somewhere else.

But when that happens, he's not dreaming. He just remembers.

Remembers his mama and how she used to dance around the house with him to Elvis or Roy Orbison. Blue Bayou was her favorite.

Remembers his father's pale face as he left Eddie behind, running from the law while Eddie stayed behind to take the fall, just because he couldn't let a cop bleed to death because of his father's schemes.

Remembers Wayne, his gruff voice and warm hugs. His unconditional love and unwavering support. The one person who always believed in him, who gave him a home and a family when Eddie had nothing.

Remembers practicing his songs with the boys and endless afternoons filled with music and campaigns and laughter. His own little corner of the world where he was free to be himself, loud and unapologetic.

Remembers Dustin and Mike and Lucas and Erica. Red and Buckley and Wheeler. Their fierce determination, their selflessness, their love for one another. He had been helpless but to join them, even when everything inside him screamed to run, to hide, to never look back.

Most of the time, though, he remembers Steve. Which should be weird, since they only spent a week together, him running from an angry mob, Steve helping him while also trying to save the world. Sure, he remembers the looks they shared, the touches, the pet names, and the flirting. But it was stolen time, stolen moments without real substance - the reckless abundance of someone who never expected to make it out alive.

He didn't. And yet here he stands, hidden among the trees surrounding the Harrington estate, watching Steve through the windows of his kitchen as he makes himself a sandwich.

It's not the first night he's spent like this, and it won't be the last.

Ever since he clawed his way out of the Upside Down, he's been watching over them. His friends, he thinks. They had been his friends. When he was still human. Can you still have friends when you're not alive, or are they like dreams, out of reach when your skin grows cold and your lungs stop breathing?

He doesn't know. All he knows is that when he came back different, wrong, he still had his memories. He remembers the love and affection he once had for them. That's why he watches over them, he tells himself. Because he had loved them once.

A few months ago, when the portals to the Upside Down were wide open, everyone had gathered here at Steve's, so Eddie had been there, too. Not inside the house, of course, but watching. Guarding it.

Not being alive makes him almost invincible. He has claws on his hands and fangs in his mouth. He's faster and stronger than ever. Any monster that tried to sneak up on them was killed in seconds, a few minutes at most. Soon they didn't even try anymore.

It's as if they somehow know that Eddie is the strongest predator around, and that these humans are his.

They defeated Vecna in the end, closing the gates once and for all.

And Eddie is still here. Still not alive.

Still watching over Steve, with the full moon above him and the warm late summer wind blowing through his hair. The clouds covering the moon provide enough cover for him to come closer, still hidden in the darkness as he continues to watch.

Time feels strange sometimes, but he thinks he has been watching Steve for as long as he can remember.

A lonely boy with strawberry blond hair, waiting to be picked up from preschool long after everyone else has left. A gangly teenager on his first day of middle school, looking lost and alone again. The same boy, taller now, finally filling out his form, sun-kissed skin and windswept hair. Popular, attractive, but still lonely deep inside.

The Eddie he had once been had been intrigued by Steve Harrington. The boy had been an enigma, even more so when Dustin and Lucas, and sometimes even Mike, sang his praises as if he were their greatest hero. And then he had seen again and again how badass Steve was, how brave and self-sacrificing. How much he was willing to give for the people he considered his own.

Back when his heart was still beating, it had been beating for Steve. Can you still love someone when your heart is no longer beating?

Eddie doesn't have an answer to that question. All he knows is that the sight of Steve brings a warmth he can almost feel, a flicker of something that might have been hope if he still had the capacity for it. And for now, that flicker is enough to keep him watching, night after night, hidden in the shadows.

Tonight, however, something feels different. Eddie watches as Steve steps out of the kitchen, his eyes scanning the darkness, almost as if he senses a presence. Eddie tenses, ready to retreat further into the shadows, but something holds him back.

Steve takes a few hesitant steps towards the edge of the property, his gaze unwavering. "I know you're out there," he calls softly, his voice carrying a blend of fear and determination. "I don't know who or what you are, but I know you're watching."

Eddie's breath catches—or it would have, if he still breathed. He remains still, his eyes fixed on Steve, who continues to inch closer. The moonlight breaks through the clouds, casting a silver glow over the yard, and Steve's eyes widen as they meet Eddie's.

"Eddie?" Steve whispers, disbelief and something else, something Eddie can’t place, coloring his tone. "Is that really you?"

For a moment, Eddie considers fleeing. Every fiber of his being screams at him to retreat into the safety of the shadows. To hide his monstrous self. But the look in Steve's eyes, the raw mixture of hope and sorrow, roots him to the spot. He steps forward, emerging from the shadows, his form illuminated by the moonlight. "Hello, Steve," he replies, his voice rough from disuse. "I'm... different now, so you be the judge if it's still me."

Steve stares, taking in Eddie's altered appearance—the fangs, the claws, the otherworldly aura. Yet, despite the changes, there's something unmistakably Eddie in his eyes. "How?" Steve asks, his voice breaking. "How is this possible?"

Eddie shakes his head. "I don't know. I woke up in the Upside Down after you all left, not alive but not dead either and clawed my way outta there. I've been watching over you, all of you, ever since."

Steve takes another step closer, his hand reaching out tentatively. "But… Why didn't you come to us? We thought you were gone. I - We missed you. Dustin -"

"I didn't know if you'd accept me like this," Eddie admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not the same person I was. I’m a monster now."

Steve's hand finally makes contact with Eddie's arm, and the touch sends a jolt through both of them. Eddie's skin, cold and unfeeling for so long, seems to come alive under Steve's touch. The sensation is overwhelming, flooding him with emotions he thought he'd lost. "You're still Eddie," Steve says firmly. "And that's all that matters."

For the first time since his transformation, Eddie feels something akin to hope. Maybe, just maybe, he can find a new place in this world, even in his altered state. And maybe, just maybe, he doesn't have to watch from the shadows anymore.

As they stand there, bathed in moonlight and the warmth of newfound connection, Eddie allows himself to believe that he can still be part of something, that he can still matter. And for the first time in a long time, he feels a glimmer of peace.

But more than peace, he feels a longing, a deep-seated yearning that he can no longer ignore. The way Steve looks at him, with such trust and acceptance, stirs something inside Eddie that he thought was long dead. He realizes that he's not just watching over Steve out of a sense of duty or lost affection; he's watching because he still loves him, with a love that doesn’t need a beating heart to stay alive.

"Eddie," Steve whispers again, his voice softer now, filled with an emotion that Eddie can't quite name but feels deep in his bones. "Stay with me. Don't disappear again."

Eddie's heart, or whatever remains of it, aches at Steve's words. He wants nothing more than to stay, to be close to Steve, to feel that warmth he's been yearning for. He’s been so cold for so long. "I'll stay," Eddie promises, his voice trembling with emotion. "For as long as you'll have me."

Steve's eyes shine with unshed tears as he pulls Eddie into a hug, their bodies fitting together as if they were always meant to. In that embrace, Eddie feels more alive than he has since he died.

And so, under the silver light of the moon, Eddie and Steve stand together, holding onto each other with a love that defies the boundaries of life and death. For the first time, Eddie dares to believe in a future where he doesn't have to hide in the shadows, where he can be with the person he loves, and where he can finally find a place to belong.

As long as Steve is willing to hold him like that, he doesn't need to be alive. All he needs is to be here in Steve’s arms.

#steddie #steddieweek2024 #steddie fanfic #kas eddie munson #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington x eddie munson #my writing

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mamamittens · 29 days ago

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Every Fold a Wish

This is my piece from the Marco Zine, not related to Spooktober, I promise! For the rest of the fics--and even artwork!--just click the link provided above!

Also, I swear I didn't mean for it to be so sad--the original plan was goofy shenanigans and maybe ending with Marco trying to throttle Thatch when he cracks a joke about his little paper cranes but then...

well, this happened!

Oh, and here's a link to the fic specific artwork for it by @luna-orix, it's a wonderful take on the Big Scene in lovely color and style!

Word Count: 2,757

Under much pressure, Marco would have to confess this all started a very long time ago.

Back when he was still a deckhand sorting through musty maps littered with ink blots that barely passed as navigation tools. Their contents were downright illegible at best, but did well enough as teaching tools for what not to do. Over time, as they were passed from hand to unsteady hand, the parchment became worn. Rips becoming tears and holes until the only thing keeping them in one piece was hopes and dreams.

What to do with such a well loved piece of parchment?

Tossing them seemed almost an insult. And making them into paper again, while an interesting task, was usually not worth the effort. The ink bleeding and dying the usable parts darker and darker. Until it was good for little else but tissues. Marco had done it a few times just for something to do between tasks. The paper drying in the press able to be left for hours if needed. And he did hold a fondness for the old parchment made new again. But it was still not terribly useful. The ink needed to be even darker, or chalk but it smeared something terrible at the slightest touch.

In all fairness, he didn’t start with the worst off pieces.

A kind, older nurse with weathered hands and a gentle smile showing him the way. Every crisp fold building up to a new, enchanting shape. Even money could be manipulated. A cute way to leave a tip, if he was so wanting. And something to do with his hands.

And he kept doing it too. Starting with his clumsy, childish fingers. Baby fat clinging to his digits as he used his bitten nails to scrape the edges clean. Until they started to even out, habit and hard work turning them into slender, calloused tools of his trade. A little treat for himself as he learned the medical trade. It was good, to know that his hands could create even if he could not heal the hurts in others. A small comfort for himself after his patients fell asleep holding his hand, yearning to not be alone with their sickness.

He got some flak for it over the years. Always teasing remarks about how cute he was being. Little flowers and fortune tellers a popular demand when a particularly mischievous brother or sister was bedbound. And Marco would sigh. Teasingly remarking on their ungrateful attitudes even as he was plied with gifts of decorative paper for his little hobby.

They decorated his office shelves. Tucked in corners and atop the spines of medical texts. Peeking behind picture frames or marching along the windowsill of Oyaji’s room. A cavalcade of shapes in a rainbow of colors and prints. Every so often one would be found covered in layers of dust somewhere forgotten and returned to him with a wide grin. Laughter echoing down the halls as Marco racked his brain to remember when he made it.

Officially, he had no favorite paper craft. No beloved origami he had mastered over the years. Just as he had no favorite sibling.

But, if his family had the wherewithal to gather every one of his little treasures from over the years and fill up a room or four with them, there would certainly be an obvious contender.

Starting with the very first one he made with a crooked wing, crumpled lightly from the very hand that had taught him so long ago.

“I saved this one for last, boyo. Hope is… so dangerous to have on the high seas. Without it, you’ll never truly live. But too much and you’ll be too drunk to survive. And this little fella? This is what he’s all about, in a way. They say a thousand paper cranes, each folded with love and care, can grant you a single wish.” She whispered to him softly, guiding his hands over the worn map of some distant island lost to time. “Make as many as you want, it’s important to remember what it means to live—to wish. But never forget the work that goes into them. Wishing—wanting—that’s not even half the journey. Admitting you want something bad enough to dream is but the first step. After that, you still need to fold the paper. And fold it over and over again until it’s fit to fly. And then? And then, little Marco, you need to do it again. Until you have a flock a thousand strong. It can’t be done in a single day. Most won’t have the patience to do it in a lifetime. But one little crane at a time…”

She never finished that sentence.

She sighed, leaning against the pillows of her bed as Marco finished his first little bird in the palm of her hand. His own cradling the bird between their palms and she squeezed gently. Bending the worn paper a little in the cramped space.

Then she let go.

And Marco hadn’t stopped making them since.

Even as he gained his devil fruit. Grew from a boy to a man. They were his little indulgence, the fuzzy memory of a weathered hand clasped in his, paper crinkling between them never far from his mind. It hurt in a good way. A way that his fruit never gave him. A sense of release. A long sigh after a hard day. Sea breeze wrapping around his bare ankles in the hot sun. Endless blue before him with heavy storm clouds littering the horizon behind him.

His office door slammed open.

A boisterous voice practically singing out as Thatch sauntered into his office with a hot meal. It was late. Later than Marco realized. The bubbly, cool fire running thick in his veins. He’d been pushing it as of late, Marco acknowledged reluctantly.

“I come, O’ Great One! With the gift of food~!” Thatch sang, squinting into the dim candlelight of Marco’s office. Free hand hovering ominously over the light switch.

“Do it and I’ll kick you into the sea.” Marco warned. His fruit offering little reprieve from eye strain at this point. Bigger fish to fry, he supposed.

Thatch pouted, nudging the paperwork on his desk aside. Rather than setting down the food, Thatch instead placed his ass there. Wafting about the food Marco still couldn’t quite identify temptingly.

“C’mon, Coco! You’ve been in here for hours! It’s time to eat up and get some rest!” Thatch huffed.

“Stop calling me that.” Marco was ignored, as usual. The nickname a little rare but typically whipped out when Thatch thought he was being an idiot about himself.

“What could possibly be more important than enjoying some good food and even better shut eye? C’mon, I’ll even give you breakfast in bed! Doesn’t that sound scrum-didily-upmtious? This handsome man personally serving you up a hot plate of food in the morning?”

Marco imagined—not Thatch ‘handsomely’ serving anything—but sputtering as seawater ruined his hair. The woeful cries for mercy as he drowned, just a little while, he swears Namur. He deserves it!

Familiar with Thatch’s everything by this point, Marco doubted many would argue that Thatch didn’t deserve just a little waterboarding.

As a treat.

“Sounds like my sleep paralysis demon talking.” Marco drawled, fixing Thatch with a dry stare.

Thatch arched back as though struck, his dramatics nearly sending the food and himself to the floor.

“My own brother! After all the hard work I put into this? Every ounce of love I put into it?” Thatch emphasized, finally lowering the plate enough for Marco to see it was flayed sea king, glazed with honeyed pineapple and served with stuffed potatoes, a hot roll, and a slice of upside-down pineapple cake. A cup of what could be anything from tea to booze to wash it down with.

It looked fucking good. But just for being obnoxious, Marco rolled his eyes.

“Gross.”

That earned him a sharp gasp and playful tears as Thatch attempted to clamber into his lap for apology cuddles. Pressing obnoxious kisses to his face like Thatch was trying to console him from some terrible tragedy that had occurred.

“G-Get the hell off of me, you ass!” Marco sputtered, reeling back as Thatch smashed Marco’s face into his chest with petulant cries of forlorn love.

“—Oh, my poor, stalwart brother! You’ve worked so hard and can’t even accept crumbs of affection! It doesn’t make you any less of a man to cuddle!” Thatch reassured him as any protest was muffled into his shirt. “I promise I won’t think any l-LE—ES--! SHIT! ACK! M-MARCO—NO!”

Marco dug his fingers into Thatch’s unprotected sides, trapping his idiot brother in place for the deserved payback.

“Marco, yes!”

Thatch wriggled fiercely, yelping with every poke and prod as they laughed, eventually knocking back the chair and ending it with Marco wheezing under Thatch’s weight.

Finally, Marco shoved Thatch off into the floor, face aching from the smile they both shared.

“Ugh! Fine! I’ll eat and go to bed, you prick!” Marco huffed, Thatch still giggling beside him.

“Great! I’ll be sure to deliver breakfast to you, as promised~!” Thatch tittered cheekily, dodging the swipe of Marco’s hand.

“The fuck you will!” his fingertips grazing the fabric of Thatch’s sleeves. Still warm with laughter and affection.

Thatch was cold now.

Somehow colder than Marco’s veins as he desperately lifted up the other man into his arms. So much heavier than before, faint breaths wheezing with blood on his lips. Cool blue fire danced over his pale face, sinking in deep with a desperation Marco hadn’t felt in a long time. Hands slick with blood, skin blossoming with feathers and scales. Teetering between bird and man so violently his words were more akin to bird cries.

There were hands pulling him away. Trying to tug his trembling body from curling over Thatch’s cooling corpse. Hot, burning hands ripping him away.

A large hand, firm and steady. A rock in the ocean that beached him with such violence.

A deep, rumbling voice.

“We’ve got it from here, my son. We’ll save him, my boy. Come back to me. Come back to us. We love you.” Those words followed him into the dark. The world shaking as his lungs rattled with sobs.

“We love you…”

There was a beeping.

That was all Marco could think about.

All he could handle.

His hands were wrong. Almost incandescent. The bones vague shadows flickering in gossamer blue light. Gold licking his fingertips as he stroked… something. Lips stiff. Twisting with difficulty out of the pointed beak they were trying to form. Every ragged breath licking across his tongue with a heady weight to it.

There was something in his hands, Marco knew.

It was… thick. A little tepid. Some give until stiff scaffolding within protested. Thin threads slipping beneath a strange, upper layer. A steady, weak thrum beneath his touch.

His eyes burned. He wanted to rip into it, whatever it was. Until it was hot and thrashing and alive—

But a keen slipped from his lips as a rhythmic beeping finally registered properly.

He was at someone’s bedside.

Again.

He was a little deckhand tending to a dying nurse.

No.

He was a man at a bedside.

A friend?

A brother?

He loved them fiercely. Whoever they were.

Marco wanted whoever it was to wake up already. Tease him for losing control like this. Obnoxiously cry about the display of affection that was cutting into Marco’s chest. Turning his lungs to ribbons. Hooking into the arteries of his heart until every thump made him ache for release.

There was a blanket over his shoulders, Marco realized.

How long had he been here? He shifted in the chair and heard paper crinkle.

Fresh, patterned sheets. Traditional ocean waves with little fish peeking here and there. Tiny boats fighting even, arching waves. All in soft blues that transitioned to richer hues, imbuing the artwork with depth and emotion.

It was instinct to reach for the paper. But the weight of a whole person stopped him. Marco looked.

Both his hands were grasping a limp wrist with a faint pulse.

Letting go felt like ripping away his flesh. Piece by piece.

Fold it over and over again.

Marco’s hands were steady despite everything. And it felt like betrayal.

He shouldn’t be able to do anything right now.

Not even breathe.

But his heart kept going. Lungs expanding with the scent of cold antiseptic.

The paper was smooth. Flawless despite the neglect he’d shown it for… however long he’d been sitting at…

Here.

Without it, you’ll never truly live.

She meant this, didn’t she? His family?

Even without a smooth surface, Marco’s hands knew the way. Folding and pinching the edges clean.

No, Marco remembered.

She meant dreams. She meant hope.

Marco knew, deep down, that eventually there would always be a goodbye at the end of their stories. Said or avoided like the plague.

But he expected it…

Marco never wanted to expect it.

He’d rather drown than look forward at a time he’d say goodbye with any one of his precious family members.

The little crane perched between his fingers. Perfect after years of practice.

Marco choked up as he placed it in Thatch’s hand. Gently curling those limp fingers around it’s delicate shape. Calloused hands cradling the bird in a loose cage.

Marco retreated. Shuffling into his dark room. No one stopped him, their gazed burning his hunched shoulders.

In the bottom desk drawer, so rarely opened it almost got stuck, was a single item.

A lopsided paper crane with a bent wing. Stained with faded ink and weathered with age.

Like he was scooping up a live bird, Marco lifted it to his chest. Careful even as he collapsed to the floor.

He cried. Wept like he’d been cut in two with sea stone. Tears gushing out instead of blood. His fire, confused at the agony he was experiencing, danced in the air. Casting dizzying shadows across the space battered with open sobs.

Marco couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t fill his lungs enough between his cries that ached down to his bones and the fire filling his lips with faux heat.

Everything hurt.

Nothing could heal.

He was a little boy again in his father’s arms. Weeping and certain he was dying from grief. Every wail a benediction. A plea against the inevitable. What was already past.

A wish burning in his veins even as shame filled him.

Death was natural. A long sigh at the end of a hard day.

But Marco wanted to hold his breath until he burst. Stop in the middle of a hurricane just to keep feeling the rain.

Parchment protested in his grasp and Marco shot up like he’d been burned.

Opening his palms to find the paper crane bent even further. Flickers of light cast across the ragged edges of ink—no?

Burns.

The bird was smoldering. Fueled by the open air of his shaking hands, it burst into golden fire. Marco wailed, shaken and confused as it lit up. Flying into the air with a trail of burning embers. Dancing in an unseen wind until, before Marco’s blurry eyes, it was gone. As though it was Thatch’s vivre card.

Time stopped. Stuttering as his heel stamped into the ground.

His shoulder nearly slamming into someone.

A door bashing into a wall.

That damn beeping so like Thatch. Annoying and reassuring in its consistent presence.

Nurses crowded Thatch’s bed, arguing over each other as familiar hair rose over them. Wide eyes looking around, face flush with warmth again.

He smiled, that crooked, familiar smile that tugged Marco’s lips into a similar shape.

“Hey, Coco, look! I got a little hospital buddy!” Thatch crowed, voice a soft rasp as he gently held up a small, blue paper crane. Gold catching the light as fire flickered over it’s wingspan. Every cresting wave lined with unnatural color that had not been there before. It seemed as alive as Thatch.

Thatch let out a creaking rush of air as Marco hugged him. Body awkwardly half in his lap as he buried his face into Thatch’s neck. Careful and weak, Thatch curled his arms around Marco’s chest. He smelled of antiseptic, sea salt, and spice.

The storm was behind them now, but there was still time for rain. One breath after another.

Little paper cranes littered across a pirate ship.

Every fold a wish.

Every step hope.

#one piece #marco the pheonix #one piece thatch #platonic love #and themes of unexpected resurrection

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bread0nhead · 1 year ago

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For Your Eyes Only (18+)

Sam Coe (Starfield) X F!Spacefarer!Reader

It’s the first time you and Sam have been apart since your relationship began. So why not send some photos to remind him of what he’s missing?

“Sarah, ready to head out?” You ask as you and the other members of Constellation stand around the lodge.

“Of course.” Sarah confirms.

“Really? Sending the big boss instead of me?”

“Don’t worry Sam, I’ll be sure to bring her back in one piece.” Sarah teases and a glint in her eyes.

“We’ll be in UC territory, somewhere a Coe doesn’t exactly fit in. Besides, we’ll be back in a week. Tops.” You kiss Sam on the cheek before grabbing your things to head out.

It’s not the week apart that has Sam pouting, it’s the fact he’ll be stuck in the Lodge for a week without you. Sam hasn’t been grounded for that long in months and the stars are already calling him.

The first three days weren’t all that terrible, as he spent most of his time helping Cora with her schooling and gathering supplies. It’s by the fifth day he’s practically bashing his head against the walls.

Knowing self mutilation isn’t the scratch to the explorers itch, he picks up the boxing gloves sitting on the floor of his room and starts wailing at the punching bag. The chain holding up the bag rattle and snap with each swing. He continues long enough to get sweat creeping down his bare chest. It isn’t until a ping from his phone comes in that he takes off the gloves and rests on the steel bench next to the leather bag.

It’s a message from you, the first he’s heard from you since you left.

“Bad news, looks like this mission might take an extra couple of days. Think you can hold out just a little longer for me?”

Sam groans at the message and grabs his explorer hat to put it back on, ready to scream into it. The hat has always brought him a little comfort.

“Another few days and I might need a new punching bag at the end of this. I miss you crazy.”

There’s no response for several minutes, making Sam all the more frustrated. After ten minutes, Sam tosses his phone on the bed and picks up the weights next to him. It’s just as the cell bounces on the mattress that another chime comes in.

Sam’s happy no one is there to see how fast he rushed to his phone to open your message. And when he does, he’s even happier that he’s alone in his room. Sam lets out a breath curse under his breath as he examines the attached image.

You’re on some hotel bed, propped up with your ass in the air and the camera angle just getting the edge of your devious smile. You’re in nothing but your bra and panties with your hair down.

Damn you’re a sight to behold.

“Don’t tease me like that. Show me more of that beautiful body.”

You respond almost immediately with a new photo. One where your bra has been removed and your hand is just barely covering your nipples. Your whole face is in this one, which he finds to be the most beautiful part of the entire photo. Your cheeks are lightly dusted from blushing and your pupils are blown out. You have a flirty smile and a certain twinkle in your eyes.

Sam can feel his loose shorts getting tighter. If you’re going to tease him, he can do just the same. Sam snaps a picture of the tent growing in his shorts. Since he’s not wearing any boxers underneath, every edge and curve of his dick just peaks through in the shadow outlines. His toned stomach is also in the picture, glistening with sweat.

Sam’s a little nervous to send the photo. He’s never sent or received photos like these. Lilian wasn’t the most keen on intimacy, and before her all the girls he’s been with didn’t last long enough to even get their phone number. His heart picks up a bit as he hits send, anxiously waiting to see what you say.

“Look who’s teasing now.”

Before Sam even has a chance to respond, you send another photo. Your back is on the bed and you’re playing with one of your pert nipples. Your teeth bitting and sucking the corner of your bottom lip.

“Fuuuuuck” Sam groans, dragging a hand down his face and letting out a breathy chuckle.

His dominate hand palms his dick over his shorts as his other hand types up a response.

“Such a good girl for me”

“God I wish you were here taking good care of me”

Sam snaps another picture, this time his hand is holding his hard member. Veins, girth, hair and all are in the photo. It’s shameless, he knows. But fuck this is just so fun. He feels young and reckless again.

“The shit I would do to you right now…”

You respond to Sam’s text with the a short video of your slender fingers stroking and dipping into your folds with your fingers coming out covered in your own slick. Sam can hear your soft moans in the video and it has his eyes rolling back.

Sam can’t take this anymore, he needs to hear you. All of you. Every breathy moan and call of his name on your tongue. He hits the dial icon next to your contact in his phone and after the first ring, you answer with the cutest giggle he’s ever heard in his life.

“Well hello handsome. Miss my voice already?”

“I miss waaay more than just your sweet voice.”

Sam starts to stroke himself, feeling himself finch in his hand. He try’s to stifle the moan that’s sitting in his throat, but it comes out louder than he expected.

“What are you doing?” You ask in a teasing tone.

“You know damn well what I’m doing.”

“What do you want to be doing?”

“Ah fuck…” Sam took in a sharp breath through his teeth. “I want to taste you.” He strokes harder, thumbing the tip of his cock.

Sam can hear your gentle cries of pleasure, hear the squelching from below. It’s fucking music to his ears.

“I want to suck on your breasts until you’re panting for me. Then when you’re nice and wet, I want to devour you. Touch you in all the ways I know you like.”

“Sam” it comes out as more of a prayer than a call. He can hear how close youre getting.

“I want to fuck you so bad”

“I need you Sam”

“I know baby. I need you too.”

As your panting picks up, so does Sam’s. Neither of you speak for a couple minutes, just moaning and groaning into the phone, cursing and chanting each other’s names.

“I’m going to cum, Sam”

“Fuck, let me hear you”

Just seconds later you’re unraveling into the mic, calling out Sam’s name. This sends Sam over the edge, moving his hand faster until warmth oozes out of him and drips onto the floor. He groans loud and fulfilled while looking at your photos.

You both take a few moments to come down from the high.

“Please, hurry back to me.”

“I promise.”

#sam coe #sam coe x spacefarer #sam coe x reader #sam coe starfield

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randomly--accessed--memories · 3 months ago

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Saw this... somewhere– on a roleplay blog, but I can't remember which one. Decided to do it for RAM!Vox just for funsies.

BOLD THE MUSE’S AESTHETIC . ( spooky edition ! )

#vox (ram)#dark #randomly accessed memories

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laurelsofhighever · 2 years ago

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Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Characters/pairings: Alistair x Cousland Chapter: 1/? Rating: G Warnings: None Fic Summary: The story of the Fifth Blight, in a world where Alistair was raised to royalty instead of joining the Grey Wardens.

Read it on AO3

The boy narrowed his eyes at the line of weeds and decapitated them with an angry swing of the willow switch. As the flowers dropped to the ground, the stalks waved a little in the violence of his strike, but it didn’t make him feel better. With strands of hay caught in his tawny hair and his simple, oversized tunic splashed with mud, he was hardly a sight fit to be seen at the arlessa’s party, or by any of the noble guests who had come to pay court to her in her condition. He told himself he preferred the stableyard anyway. He preferred to stay out of the way.

But it was starting to rain. Fat, heavy clouds had been looming closer since the morning, swallowing up the sun to the north even as they drove the hot, cloying summer wind before them like an omen, and now the first drops, scouts for the impending deluge, smashed into flagstones, into the weeds he had yet to cut down, and onto the tip of his nose. The temperature dropped. He shivered as the scent of slaked dust rose around him, half tempted to stay out in the downpour to spite the efforts of the cook to keep him presentable, but he was old enough to know the punishment he would receive wouldn’t be mitigated by sympathy if he caught a cold.

He huffed and skulked towards the stables as a second drop landed square on the top of his head – the midden-side entrance, opposite to the tack room where all the visiting drivers and retainers would be gathered at drinking and cards while Their Graces rubbed elbows upstairs. Some treated him kindly enough, but more than once he had seen a gleam of cruelty in the eyes of those who would have found a scrawny kitchen orphan good sport, and so he preferred to slip quietly past, into the gentle company of the horses. They didn’t care what he was, or who his father was, and as long as he showed them due respect, he could curl up in a corner of the loft and wait out the weather. Somewhere that smelled nicer than the kennels.

The storm broke just as he stepped over the threshold. A couple of the horses stamped and whickered nervously at the sudden staccato noise against the wooden tiles of the roof, but the straw of their bedding was thick, and cosy, and their haynets full of the sweetest meadow grass Arl Eamon’s fortune could provide, and when nothing emerged to threaten their comfort, even those more skittish mounts settled down to munching again. But something was still off. The boy cocked his head at the odd, stilted sniffle that reached him from the dark corner at the far end of the building. The door in the wall there led to the main keep, and that meant it was usually given a wide berth by the arl’s servants. It was unlatched.

He caught a flash of movement in amongst the straw as he sneaked closer, the switch still in his hand held out to the side like a sword, ready for quick action. Definitely – there was definitely someone there. The drumming rain on the roof echoed the rise of his heartbeat. He breathed deep, in through his nose, imagined a thief or an assassin. Imagined the look of pride and gratitude on Arl Eamon’s face when he found out just who had stopped this interloper singled-handed. He readjusted his grip on the switch, and with a battle cry leapt around the corner.

He found a girl.

The first thing he noticed was blue. A silk dress with vining leaves embroidered in green and gold around the hem, with just the tips of pale satin shoes poking out from underneath where she had tucked up her legs against her chest. In age, she looked a little younger than him, though brighter and better fed. He lowered the switch as his gaze moved on to the sight of blotchy, tear-stained cheeks and the tumble of black hair down her back, a frown knitting over his brows in confusion and not a little annoyance that she wasn’t an invading qunari twice his size. For a moment, the shock of being discovered made her stare blankly at him, but then her eyes, stormy with crying, flicked down to his hand and back to his face.

“Your grip is all wrong on that, you know,” she said.

He pouted, glancing down before he remembered you should never take your eyes off your opponent. “Who are you?” This was his hiding place, not hers, even if she was a noble.

She sniffed, indignant. “I’m Rosslyn.”

“Why are you crying?” The name didn’t mean anything to him, though it rankled that she clearly thought it should.

At the question, Rosslyn looked away and drew her arms around her knees. “Mother got angry because Arlessa Isolde thought I called her a walrus.”

His mouth fell open. “Did you?”

“No! I said she wasn’t as big as a walrus. And I don’t know why everyone even cares so much,” she added, dashing a new tear away from the side of her face. “She’s only an arlessa.”

Feeling a new glow of sympathy warming for this unexpected stranger despite the oddity of her last remark, the boy smiled and crossed the space to sit next to her on the bale, careful to leave a gap between them so his dirty tunic wouldn’t rub off on her dress. That she didn’t object he took as a positive sign, but he found he couldn’t quite look at her close to, and had to drop his gaze to his boots instead, kicking the heels against their shared seat.

“I can’t believe you did that,” he told her. “I would never have been so brave.”

Rosslyn bobbed her head at the compliment, and he caught a smile out of the corner of his eye.

“But she does look a little bit like a walrus, doesn’t she?”

She giggled. “And she behaves like one. Nobody likes her. Mother said we had to come today to show respect to Arl Eamon, but I heard her and Lady Landra talking in the hall before we left.”

“Arl Eamon likes her,” he said, still looking at his boots. “He likes her a lot.”

“Oh.” She shrugged. “I suppose someone has to.”

The boy kept his thoughts to himself. The arlessa had only been part of Arl Eamon’s household for a few months, since Harvestmere, but even that short time had been enough to rob him of all illusions. In the lead-up to the wedding, the servants had fluttered and fawned over the idea of the arl finally having a wife; yes, she was Orlesian, but those below stairs had heard great reports from the arl’s valet about the lady’s beauty and how thoroughly she had won his heart. She had brought her own elven maid, and her own money, and if there were worries about Orlesian pretension, they were soothed by the hope of Orlesian glamour. The problem was that nobody had told the new arlessa about the young bastard living under her husband’s protection in the castle kitchen.

He shook away the dark thoughts and cleared his throat. “Why did you come down here? People must be looking for you.”

“At first, I didn’t know where I was going, but…” She smoothed her palms over her knees. “I like horses, and it’s not like I really wanted to run away properly.”

“Sometimes I want to run away,” the boy offered, unsure of what else to say.

“Yeah?”

“I’d become a dragon hunter, or a Grey Warden, maybe.”

“Not holding a sword like that,” she replied. “Here.”

Before he understood what she meant to do, she had leaned across him and plucked his left arm from his side so she could rearrange his hand around the end of the switch, guiding each digit into a lighter hold and moving his thumb so it no longer pressed over the backs of his fingers.

“That way your wrist is more mobile, and you can meet strikes at more angles,” she explained, turning to smile at him with big, grey eyes. “If you were in the army they’d make you fight with your right hand to be part of the shield wall, but if you’re going to be a hero, left-handed should be alright.”

“Uh…” His face heated; she sat close enough for him to smell whatever noble perfume had been brushed into her hair, but she didn’t seem to mind the contrast with the odour of dogs and manure that clung to his own clothes. “Thanks.”

She sat back. “Is it… alright if I stay here for a little while? I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Of course you can stay.” He smiled at her. “I know where there are some kittens – do you want to see them?”

He had discovered the alley cat and her litter some weeks before, and had since spent his free time carefully coaxing the whole family to trust him by bringing scraps he could slip from the kitchen in the moments when the cook was distracted. Carefully, because the cook had no fondness for cats, and a plentiful supply of sacks, and only a short walk to the nearest stream. Now, however, as he led Rosslyn up the ladder into the hay loft, then higher still into the rafters by the tack room chimney, his stomach lurched with excitement at being able share the secret with someone who might appreciate it. She followed him gamely, not tripping even once despite her flimsy shoes and long skirts, and when she spied the three kittens gambolling about beneath the small window at the far end of the eaves, she gasped.

“They’re so small!” she whispered.

“They were smaller,” he whispered back.

The kittens, all tabbies, noticed them and left off their pouncing game to back up against the far wall of their den with pointed, fluffed-up tails and uncertain hisses, but only until they recognised their visitor and heard him trill a greeting like the one he heard their mother use. He uncoiled a piece of cord from the pocket of his breeches and tossed it towards them like an angler before trailing it slowly back along the floor. The kittens watched. After several repetitions, the bravest sank into a wobbly crouch, crept forward, and pounced on the end of the string.

After a little while, in which Rosslyn joined in with the silver ribbon that had tied her hair back from her face, the mother cat returned through a hole left by a broken shingle, calling to her litter with a low, rolling inquiry that brought them tottering to her side. She washed their faces as they mewled and pawed at her legs, then with a brief tail-flick at the two interlopers flopped down as if exhausted. The boy flicked the end of the cord for her as the kittens suckled, and she followed the movement with slitted, barely-gold eyes.

“Do they have names?” Rosslyn asked, after a moment of rapt silence.

“You’re not supposed to name cats, my mother said,” he replied, dangling the cord a little higher, “because then they couldn’t come and go as they please.”

“I’ve never heard that. Nan says –”

“Rosslyn!”

The voice echoed from below, rich and worried, startling the cat with a low growl that bristled her fur and sent her slinking away, driving her kittens before her like a gooseherd until they disappeared from sight. Left alone, the two children exchanged nervous glances.

“Rosslyn! Pup, are you here?”

“It’s Father,” Rosslyn breathed, eyes wide.

They heard the heavy tread of boots on the loft ladder. The boy reached for her arm, an unfamiliar panic clawing in his throat at the thought that she would leave, and take her brave disdain for the arlessa with her. But the words jumbled on his tongue, kept from spilling by another fear, that they would both be punished for being found together in such a place away from the people who obviously cared about her wellbeing, and that whatever her noble father said, it would be enough for Arl Eamon’s thunderous gaze to descend upon him and finally cast him out like all the gossipmongers in the kitchens muttered when they thought he couldn’t hear.

A head appeared at the top of the ladder. In the low light it was difficult to see any strong resemblance between the lord and his daughter – hair sandy brown instead of black, shoulders broad, jaw square behind a trimmed beard – but when his eyes pierced the gloom and caught sight of the two children huddled like mice under a pantry crock he let loose a sound somewhere between a gasp and a shout and leapt the last rungs into the room, arms already held out to gather her into an embrace. Rosslyn’s arm slipped free, and with that tether gone the boy shrank back against the wall.

“Oh, my darling girl,” the lord sighed, dwarfing his daughter as he knelt to hug her. “We’ve all been worried – Mariwen feared you’d run into the city.”

“‘m sorry, Father,” Rosslyn mumbled in return. “Is Mother really mad?”

“No, Pup. And she’ll be glad to see you safe.” He pulled back to brush his large hands over her hair as if to reassure himself of the fact. “But who is your friend here?”

Rosslyn turned then, smiling, but it faltered as colour flushed her cheeks. “This is…”

The boy dropped his gaze to his shoes. Hot shame tightened along his spine, stinging at the back of his throat. Of course he wasn’t important enough to warrant a name.

“He’s my friend.” She stepped closer into a formal bow with her hands crossed over her chest and his head snapped up. “Forgive me, ser, for not asking who you are. What should I call you?”

“Oh.” Nobody had ever bowed to him before. He felt his mouth drop open without any words yet scrambled to fill the space. “I – it’s alright. My name’s Alistair. My lady.” To follow up, because it felt proper, he tried to return her gesture, though far more clumsily and probably to far less effect in his rough-spun, dirt-spattered tunic. But she smiled at him again, and it straightened his shoulders.

They nearly crumbled again when he caught the lord’s gaze over his daughter’s shoulder. The look in the eyes was gentle but guarded, and clever, like he could see everything. He was taller than Arl Eamon, a little younger in the lines of his face, and his open fondness for Rosslyn awoke a wriggle of envy in Alistair’s belly that felt a lot like when the cook decided he’d been bad and locked him outside the keep at dinnertime.

“Thank you for keeping my daughter safe, Alistair,” the lord said, with a nod of his own. “I hope she hasn’t been too much of a menace.”

“We’ve been playing with kittens,” she told him. “But they went to hide because you spooked them.”

“Did I? Well, I’m sorry for that – I’ll be quieter next time.”

“Do I have to go now?” she asked.

He smiled at her and nodded, holding out his hand. “I’m afraid so.”

“Do I have to apologise to Arlessa Isolde? I never even said she looked like a walrus, even though she does a little bit.”

“I didn’t know you’ve seen a walrus,” her father replied mildly. “But come, and on the way back I can teach you an extra lesson about diplomacy.”

Rosslyn groaned, but nevertheless placed her hand obediently in her father’s larger one. “It was good to meet you,” she said to Alistair. “Thank you for showing me the kittens.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiled, even though she was already turning away. When she looked back over her shoulder, a faint hope surged that she might break free of the lord’s grip and run back to him – maybe insist he come with her – but instead she watched her father go down the ladder and then turned to follow him. There was a brief pause, one last look, and then Alistair was alone. With a shuddered sigh, he slid his back down the wall and sat, drawing his wiry arms around his knees.

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #dragon age origins #da:o #alistair theirin #warden x alistair #alistair x warden #alistair x cousland #cousland #warden cousland #grey warden #rosslyn cousland #as the world falls down #my writing #ferelden

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heliads · 1 year ago

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MAGNIFICENT SEVEN REQUEST!!!

Okay so I was thinking about this at like three a.m. the other night (as one does), and I could think of no one better to do it justice than you, my beloved Lisa, so here goes: Billy Rocks with a gender-neutral Reader in a Magnificent Seven Grishaverse AU (or just sort of The Magnificent Seven but Grisha exist)??

All of the Seven are Grisha themselves (you can totally pick what kind, but Billy really strikes me as being a Fabrikator), but the Reader is a Heartrender who keeps it a secret and pretends to be a non-Grisha because Heartrenders have kind of an iffy reputation. But when the Seven are in a fight with another gang terrorizing a small town and Billy gets cornered by a man about to shoot him dead, Reader panics and kills the guy by stopping his heart, revealing themself in the process. The group’s pretty much fine with it considering their skills just saved Billy’s life, but this is the first time the Reader’s ever killed anyone and they’re pretty distraught about it. And maybe the fic ends with Billy comforting them and the two of them confessing their feelings for each other??

Of course, if you don’t want to write this, that is totally and completely fine!! Thanks for hearing out my request, and I hope you’re doing well, my beloved!! 💛💛💛

raven raven raven.... as if i were not already deep within magnificent seven brainrot, this fic has changed me fundamentally. enjoy!!

masterlist

A stranger has come to town, and he’s looking for you. He’s not alone, either. The group comes in slow and easy, just when night is about to roll in from dusk’s opener. It gives the people of your town an excuse to stand and stare on their porches under the cover of lighting the lamps.

The comfort of a familiar chore can make anyone feel safer, better; just enough light, and it’s like all the shadows in the world will be gone. Maybe somewhere out there, the Unsea looms and breathes like a sickening thing, but out here, darkness is conquered by a splash of kerosene and the spark of a match. The riders tip their hats and keep moving down the street.

Your townspeople can’t be blamed for a little bit of distrust. West of the Shadow Fold, with nothing in Ravka to protect you, everything’s become a little bit of a wasteland. The ocean chokes out travel, Fjerda and Shu Han threaten to close their jaws on you from above and below, and the Unsea keeps you from running. All anyone can do is settle down with their guards up and try not to die.

Around here, the night never ends. Everything is sweltering twilight, with a great lot of dust blowing in the wind, marking off how many towns have been outcompeted and left behind for dead. Trade dries up by the day. Great men run out of business. The only thing strangers have in common with each other is empty pockets. No wonder the town natives watch the newcomers like thieves. For all they know, the strangers could be just that. All the world’s a hustle, and if you’re not careful, you’ll go from king of the hill to just another victim of a swindle in the span of an hour or two.

They go to the inn first, by means of securing a room for the night. It’s too late to travel further, even if they find their target, so they’ll just have to stay until the next morning at least. Convenient. Makes it harder for you to hide, if that’s the sort of thing you were interested in.

You only find out that someone’s looking for you, or that there are newcomers at all, once the group of them have relocated to a tavern somewhere close by. A young boy, the oldest son of your neighbor, comes running over with the news. He says there’s seven of them, seven men, and all of them walk like danger’s their best damn friend. You scold him lightly for swearing, then gather up your hackles and misgivings and head over.

There are many reasons that someone could be looking for you. This is not your only home nor, you have sense to believe, will it be your last. You’ve run from trouble like it were your shadow, only for it to come creeping back by your heels when you least expect it. Times aren’t always easy for someone like you. Maybe this latest life of yours has been working out pretty well, but that’s no guarantee that it’ll stick around.

This could be someone from an old life or two, or worse, someone who’s gotten wind of the one secret you’ve tried to hide since you were a kid. Grisha aren’t welcome here, no witch or monster or unsainted creature, which is why you never tell a soul what you really are. Sometimes, though. Sometimes, when you’re on your own and a wicked man decides you look like prey, you have to defend yourself. Sometimes that involves revealing yourself even when you’d rather not.

You have never killed anyone. That should be stated first. You have never taken a life in cold blood, nor hot, not even when they’re aiming to kill you first. Despite the fact that, of all the Grisha branches you could have claimed, you were born a Heartrender, you’ve never used your gifts for anything that extreme. You’ve injured, sure, knocked a few people out when you couldn’t avoid it, but you’ve never killed. Never. That would make you– something, you think, something wrong, something not like you.

You avoid it like the plague, but that doesn’t stop people from looking and whispering. If this is someone who’s been hunting you since the olden days, there’s not a whole lot you can do about that. Silently, you mark out your belongings in your head, plan out which ones you’ll need and which can rot away in a home that you never should have trusted as yours for long. Houses are just wood and stone, not something you can keep like anyone else. Monsters don’t get to live, they get to survive.

You might have forgotten that, maybe that’s why whoever’s looking for you was able to catch up while your back was turned. You gather your nerves up in polished metal and gunpowder and mentally press your finger on the trigger. The door to the tavern is in your sights, and you stalk inside without a trace of fear showing on your face, no matter how your heart hammers in your chest.

The doors swing shut behind you, but they’re still swaying like a dancer’s hips by the time your smile starts to shine. You’ve recognized the stranger, and he’s certainly no enemy of yours. You’ve met this man before, and if there’s one thing to identify him more than a face or name, it’s the honor he keeps polished in his heart.

“Sam Chisholm,” you say with a broad grin, “Now, what are you doing in these parts?”

Sam is prone to a smile on occasion, and he treats you to one of those along with a drink. “We need your help, L/N.”

“Help?” You ask, then, “We? I thought you were a solo act.”

“Not anymore,” he says, “Take a seat, we’ve got quite the story to tell.”

You do as told, pulling up a chair in the space they make for you. As Sam spins his tale, you listen with growing incredulity. Turns out Sam met his crew of seven trying to pull some small town out from the yoke of a greedy businessman. The odds weren’t in their favor, and they all probably should have died doing it, but the Saints were on their side and somehow they all managed to pull through.

You’re introduced to the members of the group one by one, and they raise their drinks in greeting as each name is called. There’s Sam, obviously, a self-taught Squaller. It’s fascinating hearing his heart whenever he uses his gifts, not a beat is out of place. Complete mastery. He can make one bullet strafe the sky until the single hunk of metal takes out twenty men.

Then there’s Joshua Faraday, resident Inferni. The branch of the Small Science suits him, you think; even after only having known him for a small bit of time, you can already tell he’s some kind of hothead. Jack Horne, more mountain than man, is an otkazat’sya, but you still wouldn’t like the odds of going up against him in a fistfight, he’d probably take you out in one blow.

Vasquez, outlaw, tells you quite proudly that the only power he’d ever need is that of two revolvers in his hands. Faraday guffaws loudly, shoves him in the shoulder, says as if and proceeds to list out all the ways being an Inferni’s way better than that. Vasquez shoves him back, and you think they might argue for the next few hours until Sam tells them to quit it.

Red Harvest keeps to himself, for the most part, but his eyes track every movement in the room. Tidemaker, someone says he is. No, Durast. No one can decide. He never told them what he was, but what’s obvious is that he’s damn good to have in a fight. He’s a Grisha of some sort, but, much like the Zemeni, he was never raised to place such faith in pointless labels.

All of them seem decent enough to you, but your attention is stuck on two men in the back. Goodnight Robicheaux introduces himself without needing Sam’s guiding words. He’s a soldier, he says. Was a soldier. Now a friend. He didn’t need to be a Grisha to do the things he did in the war. Privately, you think that’ll kill him someday, but Goodnight doesn’t need a stranger to point out how heavily guilt hangs about his shoulders. He’s much too aware of that burden already.

It’s Goodnight’s traveling partner, though, that pulls your focus the most. He regards you with cautious, dark eyes until Sam points him out as Billy Rocks, Fabrikator. He spins a blade back and forth between his fingers, intricate whirlpools of silver, sometimes with his fingers and sometimes with nothing at all. He keeps your gaze until Sam starts talking again. You’re the first to look away, and although it should not be something you remember, it is.

Sam’s found another town that needs his help, and this time, he wants your aid in liberating it. West Ravkan separatists have riled up a small militia and held a village under siege just because the inhabitants were believed to be followers of the crown. Separated from Os Alta by the Unsea, there’s no chance that any soldiers will be sent to free the residents, which leaves the bloody task to local fighters with a sense of benediction.

You almost laugh at that. “Since when have you been sent by the Saints to free the needy? Hell, since when have I? Why come to me?”

Faraday pipes up from the far end of the table. He’d been lost in some cards earlier, but he slaps them down when you ask that. “Actually, I’d like to know the same thing. We’ve all had our time to shine, but why’d we come all this way for some friend of yours?”

“Y/N is not just a friend,” Sam says evenly, “they’re a talented fighter, and, more than that, gifted at strategy. They saved me from a shootout some years back. We survived the last intervention by the skin of our teeth, I’d like a little more reassurance this time around. That comes with adding to our numbers.”

“I’m only one person,” you argue, “Not exactly an army to turn the tides.”

“You’re willing to fight for a good cause,” Sam replies simply, “that’s worth more than a dozen lax soldiers.”

“That assumes I’m on your side. I haven’t agreed yet,” you point out.

Sam arches a brow. “That’s true. We’ll set off tomorrow morning at dawn. If you wish to come with us, we’ll see you then. If not, it was good to see a friend.”

You nod, and turn to pay your tab at the bar. Before you leave, you glance once over your shoulder, and find that someone is still watching. Billy. The knife is still in his hands. He doesn’t seem surprised to be caught staring, and his expression doesn’t change. Unable to stop yourself, you check his heartbeat, but the rhythm is still and even. He’s curious, nothing more. Curious to see what choice you’re going to make.

You’d like to know, too. You go back to your house, lock the door, check it thrice. You haven’t considered fighting in any capacity in a long time, probably since the last time you saw Sam. A battle is dangerous. It gives you the chance to lose control, and if you lose control, you’ll reveal yourself for what you truly are. Not even Sam knows you’re Grisha. It’s not something you can afford to show off.

The smart decision is to stay in hiding. You don’t have to face Sam again, you just won’t show up at dawn tomorrow and nothing will happen. He’s a good man, odds are he won’t think any less of you for not being there. He’ll find another contact and that will be that. They’ll go rescue the town without you and nothing will have changed. Nothing. You’ll rot and die in this town, and your complacence will be what kills you at last.

The sun is just starting to rise when you close the door of your house. You have no idea when you’ll be back, if you’ll live long enough to come back at all. It served you well, this purpose, but perhaps there’s something more to life than just hiding after all.

Sam looks up when he hears the clop of your horse’s hooves. He’s been leaning against the wall of the inn, but he smiles when he sees you. “I was wondering when you’d get here,” he says, “I’m glad that you’ve decided to join us.”

“I’m glad too,” you tell him, and you realize that you mean it.

Sam mounts his ride, and leads you around back where the others are waiting. Again, Billy’s gaze is cool, but this time you swear you detect something almost like satisfaction in his eyes. One more sign that you made the right choice.

The town is only a two days’ ride from your village, and before you know it, you’re taking one final camp outside before the attempt to take it over. Sam has good information on the positions of the radicals, and you’ll mount your assault just before dawn so you can get the jump on them. You have no doubt that they’re expecting you, but it’ll be best to attack while the element of surprise is still in your favor.

You have to admit that you’ve grown fond of the company, even in the short time that you’ve known them. They’ve all got rather interesting personalities, and from the stories you’ve swapped over fires and during your travels, it’s a miracle any of them are still alive. You suppose you’ll be able to add this journey to your tales in the years to come. It’s a good thought to have.

This close to the town, everyone’s nerves are on edge. You’ve already spotted several scouting parties, no doubt combing the surrounding area to find rescue crews like your own. You’ve already had a minor incident tonight, actually. Faraday was starting to drift off when he heard a noise behind him. In a fit of panic, he fired off a blast of flame before he fully realized what was going on.

When all of you headed over to check out the attacker he’d felled, though, all you found was a charred rat. Faraday had heard the scratching and made a veritable mountain out of a molehill.

“Congratulations,” Goodnight had said dryly, “you just fried a rodent.”

Vasquez poked at the still-smoking corpse with a corner of his boot. “That’s one crisp rat,” he said, looking Faraday dead in the eyes.

The Inferni had the grace to look ashamed. “My bad for wanting to protect us,” he’d claimed, “I just have those fast reflexes, you know. Everyone wants them.”

You can’t entirely blame Faraday for being jumpy, though. Just a few hours later, you’re on watch when you hear another noise. This time, though, it’s no rat, but footsteps, and several of them. You reach out hesitantly with your abilities and hear two distinct heartbeats.

Quickly, you wake the others, and all of you crouch low beneath undergrowth and rock formations, trying to stay out of sight until you find the intruders. Red Harvest points out the silhouettes of two men creeping towards the dying embers of your campfire, and you suck in a breath. It wouldn’t do to be found out before your attempt even started, so your group will have to take out these men without alerting the rest of the separatists in town.

The two spies go in separate directions, presumably to circle up on you. Sam and Jack split off to take out one man, and you go with Billy and Goodnight to handle the other. The rest trace the perimeter of the camp to ensure that there aren’t any more visitors than the two men.

The three of you stalk your target until he’s right in front of you. Goodnight’s the closest, and you wait for him to make a move. He was a sharpshooter, after all, and right now, the spy is completely within range without any idea that the three of you are behind him. This is the perfect shot, so why isn’t he taking it?

You can feel Goodnight’s heart, hear the pattern of it. Two beats slow, then fast-fast as he tries to reconcile himself with the idea of killing. It’s a quickstep, the same regular cadence of a dance. You watch as Goodnight’s fingers twitch at his sides. It would be so easy to do it now, he’s got the guy in his sight and his hands are free. That’s all he’d need to kill. It’s all you’d need.

The quickstep picks up speed, the beats spinning around themselves like drunk kids on a dancefloor. Slow-slow, Goodnight raises his hand tremblingly forward, places his gun in front of him like a shield. Fast-fast, and the man falls down dead.

It’s not Goodnight who killed him, though. You didn’t feel him do it, that tug of a trigger finger to end the dance. It was someone else. One closer look and there’s a knife sticking out of the dead man’s chest, a silver blade. It must have passed right in front of your eyes and you didn’t even see it, that’s how fast it went.

You know who threw it, though. This whole time you were so focused on Goodnight’s two-step that you didn’t even think about Billy. Billy, who was watching just like you were, a lone man at a country outing pacing around the outskirts of a packed dance until he swoops and cuts in, getting the best partner for himself and forcing out a competitor in just the blink of an eye.

You turn to look at him, but Billy doesn’t even flinch, just relaxes the one raised finger by his side. He meets your gaze coolly, daring you to say anything about it. You don’t, and the breath caught in his chest lets itself go. You turn back around to look at the dead man, pretending you don’t feel the way Goodnight’s heart is tumbling over itself in relief.

It’s funny, growing up you’d always assumed that killing would be easy if you were good at it, if you had enough experience with it. That would be the true sign of bravery, that a soldier like Goodnight would be able to end the man’s life in a moment.

Now, though? Now you’re starting to sing a different tune. If there is real bravery in this world, it’s present in Billy, who will let himself take the moral punch of robbing the universe of another life just so that Goodnight would not have to bear the blow. It is not weakness in either of them, it is friendship, and a stronger sort of friendship than most men in this world ever experience in their lives.

Situation over, you meet up with the rest of your group. They took out their spy too, and there’s no one left, so the rest of you go uneasily back to sleep. You ready yourself to continue your watch, but to your surprise, Billy steals away from his place to sit next to you.

“I’ll take over from here,” he says gruffly, “you can rest.”

You frown at him. “You’re not on watch for another hour at least.”

“I’ll manage,” he tells you.

You arch a brow. “You’ve been doing that a lot, haven’t you?”

He nods, apparently unbothered by the implications of what you’ve just said. “I watch out for the people I care about.”

That sort of sentiment makes sense for Goodnight, who Billy’s known for quite some time. For you, though? You, who Billy met just a few days ago? You didn’t think there was room for you in his life already. Perhaps, though, perhaps you were wrong.

Billy’s gaze softens and he gestures again to where the rest of the group lies sleeping. “I mean it. You’ll be safe. I’ll make sure of it.”

He’s telling the truth, his heartbeats betray no lies. How wonderful it must be to be so sure of yourself, that you could protect the people you care about and harbor no hesitations about it. How terrible, to know that you are so capable of killing that no villain would be able to stand in your way.

“Thank you,” you whisper. When you get up, your hand brushes against his. You hadn’t realized you were sitting that closely. In fact, you think you had wanted him to stop being so far away.

Sleep comes far more easily than you’d thought. It was a cold night, but for some reason you had been warm while you rested. That could have been due to the fire sparking nearby, but when you wake, you notice that a jacket has been laid over you. There’s a knife in the pocket that you think Billy forgot to take out. You give it to him the next morning, which he accepts, but he does not let you return the jacket. It’s still cold, he says. You might need it.

The only thing that’s cold, though, is the oil slick in your veins. Your blood drips cool and heavy through your limbs, keeping you alive just long enough to take someone else’s life. Sam came up with a plan before he met up with you, and he’s spent the duration of your travels making sure everyone knows their part in it down to a T.

Even then, it’s common knowledge that complete mastery of Plan A and even plans B through E won’t save you. This is only your best guess as to what will happen inside the bounds of that city. You could all die in an hour’s time, or maybe not a single one of you will get so much as grazed by a stray bullet. Plans only get you so far. The real test will be what you’re able to do when everything goes wrong and you’re three seconds from death.

With your spirits accordingly lifted, the eight of you set out to retake the town. You split up in pairs of two to cut off any avenues of escape. You’ll be with Red Harvest, and you and your partner in death head to your prearranged location to ready yourselves for the events to come.

The crowing of a rooster somewhere in town serves as the agreed upon signal to attack, and just like that, the time of waiting is over. After that, everything seems like a blur. You and Red Harvest descend upon the town, sneaking around the back to attack the false sheriff’s men from behind. They clearly weren’t expecting an attack at this hour, so you’re able to take out many of them before they can cause you too much trouble.

The whole battle follows suit, actually. You swear it feels like you’ve just been fighting a few minutes, and then you blink and the sun’s well into the sky but you’re still not dead yet. You carefully maneuver throughout the town, taking out enemy fighters as you go, but you have yet to spot any one of your friends crumpled on the ground.

The fighting is starting to wrap up soon enough, with the remaining separatists fleeing for the hills. You haven’t seen Billy in a while, which is worrying you, so you start to stalk through town in the hopes of finding him.

The rattle of a gun makes you startle, and you peer down a nearby alleyway to investigate. What you see there makes your entire body shut down. Billy is standing with his back to the far wall, trapped in without any hope of escape. One of the separatists is staring at him from behind a gun. Billy’s fingers twitch towards the holsters on his sides, but you notice at the same time he does that he’s all out of knives.

Billy’s usually good at keeping his emotions in check, but you feel his heart rate spike in a way you’ve never experienced before. This is– Billy knows he’s going to die, doesn’t he? He has no way of fighting back and nowhere to run. You have no way to help either, you ran out of bullets half an hour ago and your aim with a blade is nowhere as good as his, so you’d probably end up hurting Billy with just as much likelihood as the separatist.

That leaves you only one option, then. The separatist pulls back on his trigger finger, but he doesn’t get the shot off in time. Instead, he drops the gun, clutching at his heart even as it judders to an abrupt stop in his chest. He’s dead in a moment. Probably didn’t even hurt.

Billy slowly looks between the fallen man and you, staring at your raised hands. Only Heartrenders can do such a thing, and everyone knows Heartrenders are monsters, the worst of the Grisha by far. Killers they are, killers and killers alone. There is no saving a person once they develop such a gift. That’s what you’ve been taught since you were small, and why you’ve kept this part of yourself hidden for so long.

You turn away quickly, mind already racing to come up with some sort of alibi you can use later. You had a poisoned dart. There was a knife in your hand, he just didn’t see it. Someone else shot at the separatist over your shoulder. There are a thousand and one reasons for the man to die, and none of them have to reveal what you are.

These reasons are of no use. When you look over your shoulder, you see the remaining six members of your party slowly congregating behind you. They must have been searching for Billy as well, and they’ve shown up just in time to learn what you really are.

You swallow hard, waiting for them to yell at you to leave or curse your name, but then Faraday leans back like he’s delivering a praise to the Saints and shouts: “No way! Saints, that was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. You’ve been holding out on us this whole damn time and you never said a thing? No wonder Sam liked you.”

Sam shakes his head slowly. “I never knew. Y/N’s just that good with or without using their abilities.”

Goodnight chuckles, the sound dry and rasping in his chest. “That was quite a show. You’ll have to do that more often, it’s a waste not to use that sort of talent.”

You listen to their heartbeats, training your abilities from man to man, but all of them beat steady. They’re not lying, then. They all have your back even after learning the truth about you. A weight releases itself from your shoulders, but it’s not fully gone. Not yet.

With the battle decidedly won, your group is finally able to relax. You all pitch in to start putting the town back to sorts again, and the hard work distracts you from what had just happened, for the most part. Once the day starts to settle, they head over to the closest bar. It’s mostly a wreck, but the owners are glad enough to be under their own leadership again that they pull out the surviving drinks and those who wish it are able to get as wasted as they so desire.

You’re not one of them, though. You’re not so sure that what you did today was cause for celebration. Instead, you find a quiet place somewhere on the porch of your inn, kick your legs up on the railing, and wonder how long it will take to forgive yourself for what you have done.

You’re fully expecting the remaining seven of you to be indoors in pursuit of shots both alcoholic and violent, so it comes as a surprise when you hear footsteps on the porch next to you. Seconds later, someone settles into a seat by your side.

“Not up for celebrating?” Billy asks you.

You sigh, letting the sound fade away into the distant choruses of the night before you answer at last. “Don’t think I’m the right person for it.”

He regards you curiously. “Is that because of the fighting overall, or what happened at the very end.”

You blow out a low breath. “You know, I’ve killed people before this. I rescued Sam from a shootout, like he said. I’ve run from place to place, and not all of those goodbyes were pretty ones. Still, I never killed someone with that. Not ever. It feels far worse, and I’m not sure why.”

“Never?” He asks. “I thought you’d used your abilities before, though.”

You frown at him. “Why’d you reckon that?”

Something occurs to you about half a beat after you form the question. It had to do with the way Billy had looked at you after you saved his life earlier that day. He hadn’t been surprised in the way you’d expected, not like the rest. Almost like he knew it was coming.

“You knew, didn’t you?” You ask him. “You knew I was a Heartrender and you didn’t say anything. Why not?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t feel like my place to say. I figured you would have shared that during the introductions if it was something you wanted the others to know.”

You nod, accepting this. “How’d you know, then? If not by me saying something?”

A smile flickers tentatively onto his lips. “You move your hands slightly whenever you try to sense someone’s heartbeat. I could sense the rings on your fingers shift.”

You laugh incredulously. “No way, the rings? Saints, maybe I need to get rid of them if they blow my cover.”

Billy shakes his head. “I don’t know, I like them. Maybe I wouldn’t mind seeing one more someday.”

The way he says it makes your breath stick in your chest for a second longer than usual. There is an empty spot near the base of your ring finger on your left hand, but you never noticed it before now. It appears that he did, though. Maybe it was the first thing he looked for.

He clears his throat a moment later, not wanting the silence to linger. You hadn’t minded it, though. “You said you’d been to a lot of places. Were all your troubles based on the Heartrending business?”

You hug your arms tighter around yourself as you consider the question. You’ve never told anyone that you were a Heartrender before, obviously, so you’ve never had a chance to discuss it with anyone. That meant that your coping strategy was usually just to push things away and never think about them again, though. Suddenly, your past is stretched out before you, painful and new like a fresh wound.

“You know, my parents were the first ones to kick me out. They loved me right up until the point where they found out I was a monster. I was squabbling with some neighborhood kids and it wasn’t a problem until I pushed one of them down a hill without ever laying a finger on them. That’s when they knew that I was some sort of thing not even the Saints could love, and they sent me away. Guess they thought I’d end up being the worst thing everyone feared of a Heartrender, and today, I proved them right.”

“By doing what?” Billy’s voice is soft. “By saving your friends? By putting your life in harm’s way to protect strangers you never met before? If that’s their idea of a monster, I’d like to meet one of their Saints.”

His hand is still and calm on your shoulder, but you didn’t miss the way his entire body tensed when you mentioned what your parents had done to you, nor how he had to force his fingers to relax one by one.

You shiver slightly, but he doesn’t take away his hand, which you’re grateful for. “You never know. It was never a safe topic for me. I’ve always kept it a secret, but whenever other Grisha come to town, they can find me out if they’ve got other Corporalki amongst their numbers. All it takes is one question and everyone knows. I can hide from the Grisha testers or human amplifiers with a bit of paraffin and some white lies, but Grisha know other Grisha.”

Billy’s brow is furrowed. “Why don’t you go to the Little Palace, then, if you’re in need of safety?”

You scoff. “Oh, that’s nothing more than a dream. As if I’ve got the money to get me to Os Alta. The Little Palace’s for the good ones. I’m not interested in becoming one of their toy soldiers. I’m no charity case for the king to point to as proof of his benevolence. I’m just me. I wouldn’t fit in there any more than as a royal myself.”

Billy nods slowly, leaning back against his chair. “If you’re interested in a different sort of life, though, you could always come back with us. It’s not much. Cold most of the time. Not a lot of money to be had. You never get the blood or dirt out of your clothes. It’s us, though, and we’d have your back.”

“I’d go for you,” you tell him through a sudden rush of confidence.

You can hear his heart stutter in his chest. It’s sweet, makes you smile. Makes him kiss you. The moon rises overhead and you– you are happy. You haven’t felt something this complete in a while. It occurs to you at last that you are going to be okay. What a life to lead. All yours. All wonderful.

requested by @starlit-epiphany, i hope you enjoy!

magnificent seven tag list: open for now!

#billy rocks #billy rocks imagines #billy rocks x reader #billy rocks oneshot #magnificent seven #magnificent seven imagines #magnificent seven x reader #magnificent seven oneshot #magnificent seven billy imagines #magnificent seven billy x reader #magnificent seven billy oneshot #grishaverse au #magnificent seven grishaverse au

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thescarletchan · 2 years ago

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But Not Forgotten

ship: Spike x Reader tags: Death and greiving, unhealthy greiving, Jet is the best Mom Friend™

summary:In the months following Spike's death, Reader finally comes to terms with what happened.

word count: 1201

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

a/n: Depression trigiloy go brrrrrrrr, also part 3 to the “Not Coming Back” series

“A hunt well ended,” Jet said with a smile, raising his bottle, and I reluctantly returned the gesture.

“Sure is,” I said with a sigh, looking around.

The Bebop is awful empty these days.

Ed and Ein were happily on Earth, Faye had gone who knows where, and… Well it was just Jet and myself left.

We still hunted bounties all the same. Granted, with fewer numbers, we had to take the small fry and were hardly making enough to get by ourselves, never mind the endless list of maintenance the Bebop needed.

But today we bagged a big one. The leader of a gang on Mars that was attempting to take power now that the Syndicate was decimated.

Jet and I helped ourselves to some food and for once, not bottom-shelf beers.

Speaking of the beers, I had just finished off my third.

“Well, I guess I should head to bed. Can’t drink away all our money,” Jet chuckled at that, “Night.”

“Night kid, rest easy.” He said as I left the living room.

“No promises,” I called, entering the hallway.

It’s always so quiet now.

The sound of my footsteps seemed to echo endlessly, no matter where on the ship I was.

When I stopped walking, I was in front of a familiar shut door.

Spike’s room.

We hadn’t cleared it out, not in the few months, it had been since… Everything happened. It was essentially a time capsule. All that was left of Spike was in there.

I stood there, staring at the metal that blocked my way.

I meant to go to my room, how did I end up here?

Options weighed in my head. Do I go in? Do I go to my room?

While I mentally debated with myself, my body seemingly acted on its own, and the next thing I knew, I was inside Spike's room, the door sliding closed behind me.

I had seen his room before on a few separate occasions.

Once when Faye dragged me in there to poke through his stuff while he was out. She was disappointed with how little he owned.

Another time was when I had to wake Spike up for a bounty. He was obviously awake, just pretending to be asleep and ignoring me. So I pushed him out of his bed. He was pissed off to say the least, but awake, so it was a job well done.

The last time was when Ein was in his room and apparently he can’t fall asleep with the corgi in there, so I was tasked with removing him. But I knew he was lying, since the day before I caught him sleeping with the dog on his chest.

But now, the room was empty.

A layer of dust had formed on Spike’s few belongings, giving the room a duller appearance. His bed was well made, as it always was.

I found myself frozen in the center of his room, slowly looking around.

Then a feeling of exhaustion took me over. I hadn’t felt this tired in a while.

Maybe I hadn’t fully processed my emotions since that day?

Maybe I hadn’t realized that Spike was gone. Never to return. He would only live in my memories.

Maybe, somewhere in the back of my brain, some strange optimistic part of myself thought he’d come back.

Even though I knew he had died.

He died in my arms after all.

Tears pricked in the corners of my eyes.

That moment replayed in my head, again and again, tens, hundreds, possibly even thousands of times in a matter of seconds.

Tears rolled down my cheeks, to my chin, gathering there before falling to the floor.

And there I stood, silently sobbing, finally feeling something other than the numb dream-like state I had been in for the past few months.

I moved to the nearest surface, Spike’s bed, and sat, hands over my face, palms growing wet with tears, hunched over.

I have no idea how long I sat there, how long I cried. My eyes were stinging from the salt of my tears, my throat ached from all the held-in sobs, and my back hurt from my posture.

I wiped my hands off on my pants, sniffling slightly, and clearing my throat.

“God I’m a mess,” I said to myself, chuckling dryly.

My voice of reason, which had slowly turned into Spike’s voice, spoke in my head.

“What’s got you like this?”

“You,” I spoke aloud.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s just my stupid emotions getting the better of me. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re allowed to have emotions.”

“Not in this profession. Not on this ship.” I murmured.

“That’s exactly what got us into this mess you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t… I should’ve talked to you. To Jet. To anyone.”

“Shut up.”

“What?”

“You’re not the real Spike. You’re my stupid idealization of him. He did what he did because he’s a stubborn idiot who’d prefer to suffer in his own mind than talk to any of us.”

“Kinda like you’re doing now?”

“It’s not the same.”

“Oh really? So what are you doing then?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Then figure it out.”

He stopped talking.

God, I knew it was just me, just my own brain using Spike against me, to finally do something for myself other than wallow in self-pity. But it really felt like I was talking to him, at least for a moment there.

“I’m going crazy, aren’t I?’

Nothing.

Too tired to get up, I kicked my shoes off and laid down on Spike's bed, sleep quickly taking me.

The feeling of the foot of the bed dipping down woke me up.

With bleary eyes, I saw Jet sitting there, looking at me, worried.

“What are you doing in here kid?” He asked, and I slowly sat up.

“It’s… It’s a long story.” I spoke, my voice quieter than I expected.

“I’m willing to listen,” Jet said, and I looked at him.

Not-Spike’s words replayed in my head, “Kinda like you’re doing now?”

“Well…” I started, and we talked.

The whole morning we talked, going from Spike’s room to the kitchen, where we both made ourselves breakfast. We talked while we ate, even though Jet insisted I don’t talk with a mouthful of food, which I ignored. We went to the hangar and talked there while Jet tuned up Hammerhead. And finally, we were done.

“I’m glad we did this. It feels good to finally get all this out of my system.” I said, a small weight off of my shoulders.

“Me too, but this isn’t gonna fix everything, you know that, right?”

“Yeah… but it’s a step in the right direction. Communication is good.” I countered.

“It is, and you’re right. This was healthy. How about we do this again? And it doesn't have to just be about Spike. It can be anything.” He offered, and I nodded.

“Same time next week?”

“You got it.”

He went back to work on the Hammerhead, and I left the hangar, for the first time in a while, genuinely content.

Spike may be gone, that’s true.

He is gone, but not forgotten.

#spike spiegel x reader #cowboy bebop #spike x reader #death #i wrote a fuckin trilogy #i blame my friend for this #fuckin trilogy bitch

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jorvikpov · 2 years ago

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The moon, bright and full, shines over Jorvik. Even this darkest hour of night is lit up by forceful, blue-white light that casts strange shadows in the forests and beneath the mountains. The island is asleep, but unease lies over its peaks and valleys; many toss and turn in their sleep, plagued by dreams and restlessness. Even in the stables, some have half an eye open, turning their big heads around over and over again just to be sure that something hasn’t made its way into the corner.

You are awakened by the ending of a dream, eyelids slowly opening and eyes—still thick and blurry with sleep—flickering around your room as you try to find your footing back in reality. Your bedsheets feel all too rough and all too soft against your skin, and cold, cold air is flowing over your chest and right arm. Your curtains hang heavy and perfectly still over your windows, moonlight seeping through the cracks between fabric and wall and lighting up your bedroom in a faint glow. Where the moonlight shines, dust dances through the air, and your sheets are tousled and bunched up, one or two blankets lying abandoned on the floor. Your clock, ticking loud as ever on your desk and echoing through the silent room, shows—almost illegibly—twenty minutes past two, or perhaps ten minutes past four. The dark knots in your wooden ceiling stare at you, empty eyes in the darkness, and you stare back. You have seen worse.

(The oil rig, empty and dark, rises tall above the ocean. Something juts out off to the side; it glows, moves, spirals, sucking life into it and spitting out something else. You move closer. Atop a platform, you see now, is a blindingly bright gate-like structure. Despite its glow, it seems to cast a deep shadow over everything around it. In that deep shadow stand five dark silhouettes, a stark contrast against the white glow, perfectly still and coordinated as if gathered by the gate. You lean back, shoulders hitting the cold metal wall behind you, and for a second your vision is not with you, but somewhere else, and there is a horse, dark yet glowing, by the gate. You pull yourself back together, metal cold through your coat again, and the horse is gone, and then it is there again. You blink. The gate has gone dark.)

Cold night air breezes again over your bare arm, curtains dancing in the light draft. In the wake of your still-vivid dream, you are wide awake, and for lack of other things to do, you stare again at your ceiling. It stares back. You pull your blankets back over yourself as best you can, shuddering as your body begins to slowly but surely warm up, and let the occasional dance of your curtains lull you to sleep as your clock sings you a gentle, rhythmic good night song.

Once you fall back into a deep sleep, you will dream of shadows and of something far too pink and far too bright, but until then, you will be perfectly at peace.

#sso #ssoblr #star stable #star stable online #jorvikpov #it's completely coincidental but I'm actually sleeping in a room with a wooden ceiling that has a lot of knots in it tonight #the full moon is far from coincidental though. I actually looked up the moon phases #also happy late first year of existence to Jorvikpov!#made first post on the 4th of January 2022

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prideandpen · 2 years ago

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not to be all boo-hoo my dad died and now i’ll never be happy again because like. obviously that’s not true. but like. im so fucking angry. if there was one good thing this year gave me it was the acceptance that I do still want to write to publish and make something of myself as an author and i had been intending on really trying to figure out how to make that happen and now? now I have been without a job since june when i left my shit retail job and been dragging my feet on finding a new one because i have been so incredibly fortunate enough to be able to live with parents who haven’t needed or expected me to put up rent

and i really thought that maybe 2023 was going to be my year, because it couldn’t possibly be worse than the bullshit ive been through this year. and now my dad is dead. and not only is that so painful because of all the things I probably should have done differently and because his doctors basically killed him by being careless and negligent and not very good people doctors but also because even with my brother moving back in im really going to have to try and find my footing again in a job im all but guaranteed to hate and struggle in which will no doubt wreck my energy and ability to create.

i really thought for a while that maybe I was finally getting closer to being happy. like generally as a whole happy - like with my life instead of good moments and good times in the midst of everything being a struggle. i thought i was going to find my way. thought that in six months I’ll be thirty and finally fucking free of my twenties and it’s got to get better, right? because i’ve been trying and putting in the work to get better and be better. and the last ten years have been such a constant challenge and now i have to turn 30 without my Dad. how can i be excited to move on to the next part of my life, the part that I thought was going to be progress and movement and finally finding the light at the end of a very long tunnel. it’s such a fucking joke like. am i just not supposed to be happy in this lifetime? is that it? i exist to keep the peace and slog through and enjoy nothing but moments and things and never find contentment? i’ll do it but it’s so fucking ridiculous any time i ever start feeling like maybe there’s a chance for me, maybe i can do it, other people get to be happy, get to be content, get to be someone or make something of their lives i am proven wrong.

my journals have years worth of entries that end with the determination to be hopeful that slowly achingly slowly morphed into the decision to believe rather than just hope. and i just don’t see the point any more when all it ever gets me is a new hole to dig myself out of

i don’t know what im doing with my life. i never have. and now it’s like life is just doing away with me because i couldn’t figure it out in time. just gonna shuffle me away into the corner somewhere to let me gather dust like a forgotten project. Even if I do somehow figure out now it’s always going to be a little bitter

#just some diary posting

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bcondonwrites · 21 days ago

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Olney, Illinos

In the Southeast corner of Illinois, somewhere between St. Louis and Louisville, is the small town of Olney. Its historic downtown looked much like every other historic downtown; the occasional restaurant or thrift store squashed between empty storefronts. The old theater sat vacant, bought and sold over and over in hopes of finally being renovated. By all accounts, Olney was a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sort of town, you didn’t even need to turn off the highway. The only people who deliberately made the detour had run out of gas or cigarettes, save those who had taken an interest in some of its smallest residents.

Slick dew still pearled the grass at Olney City Park, its sign declaring the town Home of the White Squirrels. Every year, the city ran a census on the white squirrel population in town, 64 as of last October, and even enacted an ordinance that gave the unique critters the right-of-way when crossing the street. Everyday celebrities, those squirrels were.

On the morning of Monday, September 4th, Mara opened her eyes and everything was as it always was, except for a small tear- a pinprick really- that had opened up in the basement of the Richland County Courthouse. The hole had popped into existence at approximately 6:58 a.m. CDT, two minutes before Mara's alarm was set to go off for school. The residents of Olney, Illinois, weren't aware of the anomaly and never would be.

As Mara stepped out of her house and ducked into her lukewarm hatchback, the pinprick expanded slowly and steadily. By the time she had reached Richland County High School, 600 or so strong, it had swallowed its first filing cabinet. Mr. Paxton, who had had a warrant out for his arrest based on those very files, was set to have his house raided that morning. With a single gulp, he disappeared from the docket. The officers assigned to Mr. Paxton’s home proceeded elsewhere, and they all enjoyed a rather eventless hour or so.

The hole, now surely large enough to be called that, continued expanding until it had swallowed the entire labyrinth of files and shelves that had been gathering dust in the archives. Hopefully it didn’t have allergies. At school, the bell rang to signal the end of the first period, and the students sprang up from their seats. Mara was especially studious and had recently taken up an internship at the Courthouse, which she attended for her second and third periods. As she hurried to her car, the Courthouse, as well as everyone inside, was enveloped. She reached her car, grabbed a warm pack of gum from the center console, and walked back inside to enjoy her free periods.

Having swallowed an entire block, the hole became quite ravenous. It seemed the larger it grew, the faster it expanded. Mrs. Castillo, the proud owner of El Cactus Mexican Grill, crouched down to retrieve a lost pair of sunglasses just as she and her restaurant were swallowed whole. Her daughter and son-in-law, anticipating the announcement of their first pregnancy, had been coming to visit her all the way from Indianapolis. They had stopped at Crumble Coffee & Bakery, enjoyed a delightful breakfast, and promptly turned back the way they had come.

“Why’d we even drive so far for breakfast?”

“Don’t know, but damn it was good, don’t ya think?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Soon, Mara was pushing notebooks back into her school bag, eager to grab a light lunch with her friends at Ophelia’s Cup downtown. Mara and her friends hopped into the hatchback when suddenly, she was craving pizza, then Chinese, and then cold-cut sandwiches from Casey’s. They agreed to get sandwiches and Mara pulled out of the parking lot. The trio arrived just as the cashier’s girlfriend, a petite woman who loved to gossip, was snatched along with what was formerly 22 blocks worth of businesses, homes, and residents. She had been busy spreading a rumor about the woman who lived in the unit above her, a single mother.

“She has men over every night, you know?”

“Yeah?” replied her hairdresser, trying to recall if this was the same woman who’d had the yapping dog last month.

“Yeah,” she laughed, “and they pay her like shit, too.” None of that was true, but it no longer mattered when the mother, too, was swallowed.

The cashier was probably the sleaziest one employed, even before he no longer had a girlfriend to keep him in check. He made no effort to hide his attraction for the girls, even moving from behind the counter to touch Mara on the shoulder. He had never been so bold. The girls talked in hushed tones about the interaction as Mara drove back to school, but were quickly distracted by their phones as the Casey’s became victim to the black hole in the distance. The hole was no longer perfectly circular as it expanded; it reached out with inky arms, a paintball spattering Olney in slow motion.

They brought their food to an empty table in the cafeteria and ate quietly. There wasn’t nearly as much to talk about now that half the town had been consumed. A flock of ducks had been flying to a small, swampy pond at the end of a cul-de-sac on the southern edge of town. The oldest of the flock felt a pull in his heart for that pond, and then like a pair of scissors snipping a thread, his desire vanished. He banked and led the ducks onward, passing over what remained of Olney and narrowly avoiding the void’s reach. The frogs below, however, weren’t so lucky.

Mara didn’t feel anything in particular when she ceased to exist, she was simply gone. Drake University in Iowa had no reason to send an acceptance letter to a girl who didn’t exist, from a school that didn’t exist, and so her name subtracted itself from their spreadsheet of new hopeful enrollees. One less envelope an underpaid student assistant had to seal. As the abyss grew larger and larger, the town became smaller and smaller.

Mara’s father, Ryan, was a welding instructor at Olney Central College who had been visiting a neighboring college in Robinson. He found himself at the center of a classroom filled with bored eyes and restless legs. “Well, introduce yourself,” said Kenny, a stocky, lifetime resident of Robinson.

Ryan raised his hand and gave a quick salute to the class. “Hey, my name is Ryan Hansen. I’m here from…,” he trailed off. And just like that, the last oak tree, just past the baseball fields on the edge of town, was swallowed. A squirrel had lived in that tree, quite peculiar in terms of squirrels. It was the very last white squirrel that called Olney home, a ghostly sight to see. Once swallowed, this squirrel- quite possibly the most powerful squirrel we have come across in our time- did something to that hole. Around noon, the hole quietly began to pucker and shrink, heavy arms pulling at the edges of the land as it collapsed in on itself and the last white squirrel, and of course, all 9,584 residents of Olney, Illinois. It shrunk until there was no trace a town had ever even existed there, and on Monday, September 4th at 12:08 p.m. CDT, the trip from St. Louis to Louisville was shortened by 3.5 miles, about six minutes by car.

Previously Published in the Upper Mississippi Harvest, Spring 2024

#creative writing #short story #original fiction #writing snippet

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snow-system-wol · 5 months ago

Text

S'ria isn't exactly ready to retire quite yet -- and life goes on, even if it scares G'raha. That doesn't mean he can't try to keep S'ria as safe as possible, though.

Ao3

It took months before S'ria was cleared to do so much as pick up his daggers from where he'd left them gathering dust. It said something about S'ria, or perhaps about the situation, that G'raha had never needed to argue about this. Another time, S'ria would have maybe protested, tried to overdo it anyway – but not this time.

At least G'raha did not feel immediately worried about that reaction – he was far more glad than anything else. S'ria did not willingly place combat aside with the air of someone giving in to despair and depression. No, it was much more so the actions of someone who felt trying to be gentle with his body and considering his own limitations were finally worthy endeavors.

G'raha was there when he first tried to use weapons again – of course, in case he did anything that caused injury, yes, but also to be supportive.

Watching S'ria pick up his daggers sent a bolt of fear through G'raha's heart that he did his best to dismiss. It wasn't as though S'ria was simply going to… settle down and never fight again. G'raha wasn't ready for that either – there was so much of the world to see. Perhaps, some day, they would quietly live out the rest of their lives somewhere… but not yet.

S'ria had… struggled, that first day – unsteady on his bad leg, weak and uncoordinated with his weapons. He was frustrated nearly to tears, and G'raha was glad they had decided that S'ria first try with a dummy, as opposed to sparring, for his own safety. Still, it was obvious that trying to move the way he was used to was uncomfortable at best, and painful at worst.

G'raha sat by S'ria while he recovered during breaks, hands twitching with anxious sparks of magic, and S'ria just sadly shook his head – it wouldn't help to try to heal something that had already mostly done so.

He'd been given a knee brace, and that did something for pain and stability, but the rest was just up to him.

It was obvious S'ria was frustrated by his own limitations, by how blatantly easy G'raha went on him as they moved into light sparring. Slowly he improved, as he found ways to compensate for being less easily agile. It was an odd thing to try to be careful for – sprinting a few yalms was mostly painless, but stopping suddenly or pivoting his footing hurt. When he did too much, the ache in his ribs worsened, but the most important part was that he could breathe.

Another development that put G'raha's heart somewhat more at ease was S'ria's inspired idea to somewhat return to his Limsa roots. Newly holstered at S'ria's hip was a modified flintlock pistol – lovingly retrofitted to a modern cartridge design. While it was not used during sparring with living partners, it proved a useful addition to S'ria's arsenal – something that could both be fired point-blank if he got cornered and couldn't dodge, and that could work across the battlefield if his mobility flagged during a fight.

That was the best they had for now –S'ria, struggling to get back to a functional form, and now with the addition of an entire gun for safety.

----------

It was with a tinge of bittersweet feelings that he watched S'ria get back to a point where fighting was fully manageable – he did not wish to see S'ria's injuries take him permanently off the battlefield, but he would also be fine if S'ria never had need to fight so intensely again.

Being able to defend himself was good, if they traveled together then they could have each other's backs – but that wasn't how it would be, surely someone would end up asking S'ria to do something lethal once they realized he was available for use again.

G'raha had expected it to be another Scion out of desperation, or a city leader demanding S'ria's assistance as he bitterly recalled them doing so often – he did not expect it to be someone here.

When S'ria was called down into Labyrinthos to take a look at something, G'raha had not thought anything particularly odd about it. S'ria's work with the Students of Baldesion led him to meet with researchers frequently.

It was only when S'ria came back to their room with a guilty expression on his face that G'raha realized it had not been anything so simple.

G'raha's first thought, to be frank, was how dare they?

The people of Sharlayan should know better – they'd seen the months of S'ria clinging to him, winded and in pain and barely able to support his own weight. And those that worked in or near Thaumazein should know better than most.

They'd been clustered about when the ship had landed, had been all but shoved out of the way while rushing to get S'ria medically stabilized. S'ria had at least briefly woken on the ship, but remained ilms from death – a fact that would have surely been obvious to anyone watching them panic or catching a glimpse of S'ria himself.

“Back to Elpis? Ria, that is the one place where none of us can accompany you.”

“I – I know. But this is important. What if our newly saved world is destroyed by this?”

G'raha frowned. “Or… what if that is the wrong way ‘round? We are still alive in this time – mayhap this timeline is the one where you simply let it be. Mayhap –”.

“Raha.” S'ria sighed and let his shoulders relax. “We both know that you wouldn't be making this argument if not for you wanting me to refuse. Also – I can prove you wrong. Elidibus met me in Elpis, in this timeline, and that hasn't happened yet. I need to go back.” S'ria squinted. “Or, I already have, I mean.”

“You've… you have hardly even practiced against living foes that mean you harm, are you truly ready for this?” G'raha lowered his head, face no longer visible from S'ria's view. “Please, I do not –”.

He fell silent, at a loss for words. Yes, he could beg S'ria to stay, but that would not accomplish anything – only delay the inevitable and hold S'ria back, something that there would surely be resentment over.

But that didn't mean it was fair – S'ria deserved more time, and G'raha could not bear the thought of –.

G'raha stood on shaky legs. “I am not angry with you, but – I need some time, some fresh air. Please… do not leave before I return.”

“I'm sorry.” S'ria offered him a smile that was equal parts strained and reassuring. “I don't intend to leave today at all, don't worry.”

He leaned down to kiss the top of S'ria's head. “We are alright, I merely need to be alone for a bell or few.”

G'raha felt more than saw the tension drop from S'ria's body.

“I'll be here.”

----------

S'ria couldn't help but flutter about their room nervously. He knew why G'raha had not taken this well – but they also both knew that these quiet days would not last forever. It still felt unpleasant, though, for the task he must complete to also be one that upset his partner greatly.

It wasn't even placing the greater good over G'raha – if the world chanced to end a second time, he'd want to save it for his loved ones.

It was still a relief for G'raha to, true to his word, return to their room shortly after sunset – looking far calmer as well.

S'ria did not ask how his time wandering had been, but G'raha smiled at him as he hung his coat up, and that was enough.

G'raha sat upon the bed and gently patted the spot next to him, holding some small object in his other hand. S'ria stared suspiciously at it upon sitting down. It was a small box, easily able to fit in G'raha's hand, and clearly hinged. It looked quite familiar in general structure, even if the colors were more Sharlayan in sensibility.

“I, uh.” S'ria's voice climbed higher as he spoke. “Are you proposing to me? Now?”

G'raha's tail thumped against S'ria's lower back, and S'ria glanced out of the corner of his eye to see it swishing in agitation.

“Ah, I – er, no! This is not –”. G'raha blinked. “That is, unless you wanted me to be proposing, in which case –”.

“Breathe.” S'ria chuckled fondly. “No, that is a chat for another night. Sorry for assuming – what is it, then?”

G'raha shook his head, face slightly flushed. “No, you were perilously close to being correct. These are meant for marriage, it just… I do not see why we must be wed for this.”

He opened the box, showing two gold bands – simple, yet there were faintly visible etchings on them. S'ria could make a guess at what they were, but he had not knowingly seen them in person.

“Are those…?”

“Eternity rings? Yes. I must confess to having been considering it for some time, but my footsteps took me past an arcane jeweler’s shop – far less busy than normal – and it felt like a sign. They are already attuned to each other, and once they are put on for the first time, it will adjust to your aetheric signature.” G'raha smiled. “So it should be far easier for you to use than a normal aetheryte.”

S'ria stared, voice dropping to a whisper. “Raha, those cost a fortune. How am I supposed to safely wear that in battle?”

“Every gil will be worth it. And worry not – you may freely remove the ring, but it is enchanted to never leave your finger unless you choose to do so.” G'raha cleared his throat. “So, do you, er… accept this gift?”

“Why would I refuse? It is kind of you and makes perfect sense.”

G'raha glanced away. “If it feels like too much commitment, or… well, you know what other people will assume about the rings.”

S'ria cupped G'raha's face in his hands, leaning down carefully to kiss him. “All the better to stop other people from trying to court me – Raha, I hardly mind if people think that, most already know we're together.” He paused. “Though I would like to keep things clear among friends, or else they'll be mad that they weren't invited.”

G'raha laughed at that, a wonderful sound in the aftermath of all his nervous apprehension.

S'ria let go of G'raha, instead pulling his legs up onto the bed and turning to face him. “How do we do this?”

“There is still a certain amount of ceremony. Er, we just need to put them on each other, that is all. Nothing more complicated.”

“That's easy enough.” S'ria offered G'raha both of his hands. “I… I don't know what is traditional for you.”

G'raha took his left hand, a slight tremble to a normally steady hold. “‘Tis the same here as in Eorzea.”

Once the ring was placed on S'ria's finger, there was a brief odd sensation – like a painless zap or a brief vibration – and then it felt like any other piece of jewelry.

S'ria reciprocated the gesture, oh so carefully fitting the band on G'raha's ring finger, and then he could sense it – a faint link between his own ring to something else, a reassuring and almost grounding thing.

Their hands were still clasped together when G'raha looked back up at him. “You shall not need to distract yourself from your surroundings while trying to sense a distant aetheryte, I know that is difficult for you to do suddenly – just focus on the ring and it shall do the rest.” His grip tightened, thumb tracing the metal of S'ria's ring. “This Pandæmonium… the moment it is too much – please, come home to me.”

#snow-system #ffxiv-oc #ffxiv-reactions #s'ria 🌸❄️#writings #:bongocat:#hi this is. yea #probably going to cause me writing plotholes later but it's fiiiine

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